Cut off all my yellow locks.

Roz and Viola mostly. We play guitar, viola and violin. A lot of people sing or drum along. Calypso and Shell admire the bodhran; Jilly - the tin whistle and recorder. Mannie used to play a few hymns and she's not the only one here who likes god bothering music. We love the eerie and unsettling early Anglo-Saxon folk that was so perfectly preserved in that living museum of music: the Southern Appalachians as it was early last century. We have a weakness for Irish-Australian transportation ballads. We are curious about gender travesty especially women in mens' dress a cutting off their yellow locks and why polly never seems to learn not to get herself murdered.

Five tin whistlers at the table.

There's been two major music events in January.

Number 1. Dinner/music night at a friends house down the road. Diving for things that shine...

Number 2. The night we ended up with five tin whistlers at the breakfast table.


That's it.

There's a music evening planned, involving sour cherries.

And music.

Not a squeak.

Not a squeak out of Galmara or Cardwell. However, last Monday Roz and Francesca did sing and a couple of HC at least attended a drumming workshop and have made a companion for Titania.

So that's something. Two somethings.

My fingertips are soft. My left hand might as well be my right.

There's dust on my guitar... etc.

Three somethings, Miss Moodle flush with the joy of having won her right to attend church albeit rarely, called upon us with the voices to sing also, last Sunday.

Dust on my guitar...

still. And my fingertips are soft.

Never mind. I watched a doco on Morissey. Genius lyricist.

I love him. Still.

Soft fingertips.

"there's dust on my guitar"

Welcome to the Beggar's Opera.

I don't understand sometimes why I couldn't have had my own life. Is it overpopulation - are there so many souls to be born that we just must learn to share bodies to save the planet?

Roz.

Sister Act.

Poor Kate. Maxwell's Silver Hammer is not a begin guitar song.